Saturday's Child

'What's this about?'

He lights the ciggie with a knock-off Zippo, takes a few puffs. The smoke smells like pipe tobacco. 'Where was you the other night?'

'The other night? You've got to be more specific than that, Detective.'

'Last night, smart arse.'

The kettle clicks off in the kitchen. 'Be right back,' I say.

I make the tea, brain ticking over. He can't have heard about my run-in with the bouncer. Doesn't make sense that the big bugger would go crying to the busies, especially considering his line of work. But stranger things have hap- pened. Donkey's notorious for keeping his ear to the ground, mostly because he's as bent as they come. Not difficult to find out stuff happening in the underworld if you're part of it.

Make sure to give him the sugar that's congealed into a hardened lump, shot through with old coffee. He'll have to chew the last mouthful.

As I give him his mug, he says, 'You got an ashtray?'

There's one right next to him.

'Never mind,' he says, and flicks ash onto the floor. 'So where was you last night?'

I smile. 'I was out at Withy Grove.'

'Fuck me, going up in the world, eh? You'll have plenty witnesses.'

'Probably. I didn't take any names, mind. Didn't think I'd need 'em.'

'Oh, you need 'em.'

This is Donkey through and through. Thinks he's a proper hard case, reckons he should be down London and head of the Flying Squad by now. The closest he's going to get is watching Regan and Carter on Granada Plus and getting pissed up on duty. Oh yeah, and maybe the odd bit of police brutality.

He sets his mug on the table next to him, reaches into his pocket for a hip flask. He adds a nip to the brew. 'How's Declan?'

It always comes down to my brother. 'He's fine,' I say. 'He's clean.'

'Wonders never cease. Send him my best.'

'I'll do that.' Even though I won't do anything of the sort. Declan knows Donkey's been asking after him, it might be enough to throw him back to the wolves.

I take a sip of tea, look across at the uniform. He hasn't said a word so far. It bugs me. He's standing on a couple of bandy legs, his hands behind his back in a classic plod pose. Weedy bastard. If Donkey's brought him along as muscle, he needn't have bothered. This kid doesn't look like he could throw a tantrum, never mind a punch.

'You been to The Denton recently?' says Donkey.

'I was in there Bonfire Night,' I say, still staring at the uniform.

'Have any trouble?'

'You know I did. You ask me about The Denton, it's not my local, you heard someone mention my name 'cause there was bother.'

'Clever boy.'

'I'm not fuckin' daft. And what's the story with PC Haddock over there? You going to arrest me for some- thing?'

Donkey's tone changes. He looks at the floor as if he's trying to remember the correct phrase. 'If you'd be more comfortable in custody…'

'You got fuck all on me, Donkey.'

He's out of the seat and at me before I know it. Hits me hard in the gut. The breath shoots out of me. I tumble to the floor, mug of tea tipped all down my front. I don't feel the burn until I try to sit up. Then it's like my chest's on fire.

'Fuckin' wanker.'

'You watch your mouth, Innes.' He's standing over me. Looks like he's ready to put the boot in if need be.

I pull my shirt away from the skin. Look down and my chest is lobster red.

'Call me Donkey, son, I'll kick like a fuckin' donkey.'

'That's police brutality,' I say. 'I'll have you suspended.'

'It's not police brutality, mate. You're not in custody. And you keep talking like that, you won't be until I've broke your fuckin' skull.' Donkey crouches by me. His breath smells like wet tobacco. 'You know better than to play funny buggers with me, Callum.'

He rips the plaster from my nose, takes the scab with it. I start bleeding again.

Christ.

I turn over, get to my feet. The uniform still stands there. Taking it all in like a good boy. No wonder the Met's in such a state.

'Fuck do you want, Detective?’

‘Where'd you get the nose job?'

I remember the line: 'Your wife got excited. She crossed her legs a little too quick.'

Donkey sighs. 'Constable, if you'd do the honours.'

The uniform wakes up and pulls cuffs from his belt. Starts on with reading me my rights. Which he doesn't have to do, I don't think. Unless this is more serious than I thought.

'I know my rights. And one of them is that I'm allowed to get cleaned up before you two go to work on me, okay?'

I walk into the bedroom, change my shirt, grab some jeans. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. Those bruises on my throat have turned nasty. My nose prickles. My tooth throbs in sympathy. I'm a wreck. Grab another plaster from the bathroom and press it onto my nostril. This is bullshit. Donkey's got nothing on me. If anything, he's heard that I'm working for Morris. He'll bring me in, sweat me down and hope that I spill whatever I'm supposed to spill. He used to do it with Declan all the time. But my brother was weaker than I am. He had a habit and a fear of dying in a dirty police cell.

I return to the living room with my arms out. The uniform obliges by cuffing me. Not too tight. Look in his eyes and there's a glint of sympathy. Yeah, mate, you probably had to endure a whole morning of the fat bastard. I hear Donkey

likes Dido. And he would have insisted it was played con- stantly. So yeah, I pity that uniform something rotten.

'Who's grassed me up?' I say. Smiling through it all. What the hell.

'You don't get it, do you, Innes?

I get it. You hear that I had a barney at The Denton, you come round here with Dixon of Dock Green and slap the cuffs on me, think I'll grass up anyone to stay out of jail. Bring it on, Detective. I'll be out in time for Corrie.'

'And I'll see you right back in the 'Ways, you little wanker.'

Something doesn't sit right. That didn't sound like an idle threat.

'Shit, that smackhead didn't die, did he?’

‘Your wrestling partner? Nah. But Dennis Lang might cark it before the day's out.’

‘Who's Dennis Lang?'

But I don't need Donkey to tell me; it clicks into place quick enough. The landlord at The Denton. 'That bastard?’

‘That bastard. And his wife says you did it.' Shit.

FOURTEEN

We know the steps to this dance, even when there's no music playing.

The uniform leads me outside to Donkey's Ford Granada, a car that looks like a prime candidate for a mercy killing. Someone's written unmarkedpolicecarin the grime on the bonnet. It was probably Donkey. He's weird like that.

I get into the back of the Granada, the uniform sitting next to me. Donkey pulls himself behind the steering wheel and 'White Flag' starts playing. Knowing full well that anyone with a pair of ears is likely to crack with that deaf bird twittering her way through three-minute chunks of shite. Above the whine, Donkey starts to hold court on how to subdue a suspect with minimum force.

Minimum force, my arse. Donkey's a batter first, make up excuses later kind of copper. You know the type. They're the ones that end up getting the boot or hitting the top of the ladder. One of these days, DS Donkin's going to go too far. He'll beat the shit out of the wrong guy, or end up in stir himself. Then he'll be fair game to any con with a grudge.

Hope springs eternal.

We arrive at the nick and I'm bundled out of the car. Brings back sore memories of the last time I was here. Then I had puke on my shirt and shaking legs. Now I'm shaking, yeah, but it's anger.

We go into reception, Donkey too close for comfort. He